


Worn Dovetail

by ezlebe



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Closets, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Eavesdropping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlebe/pseuds/ezlebe
Summary: Richie takes a step back and folds back onto the floor, an upward-facing hand offering a sweeping gesture at the space next to him. “Signore Spaghetti, may I offer you some floor, Simpsons, and an Airpod?”Eddie closes his eyes for a brief moment, feeling a twitch at his mouth and refusing to let it turn upward. “Are you literally 12?”“It is tradition,” Richie says, smoothly shifting to another, sterner accent while gesturing more entreatingly at the floor.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 118





	Worn Dovetail

Eddie doublechecks the directions on his phone: two floors up, second door on the right. They’ve taken him to a darkened guest bedroom, tastefully done in a mix of modern and rustic, per Hanscom-Marsh style, but it doesn’t seem to contain the idiot who sent him the message.

A stage-whisper comes from across the dim room. “Over here.”

Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin, then rolls his eyes, hurriedly closing the door behind him and stepping toward the actual fucking closet that Richie is leaning out of at the back of the room. “What the _fuck_ , Trashmouth?”

Richie takes a step back and folds back onto the floor, an upward-facing hand offering a sweeping gesture at the space next to him. “Signore Spaghetti, may I offer you some floor, Simpsons, and an Airpod?”

Eddie closes his eyes for a brief moment, feeling a twitch at his mouth and refusing to let it turn upward. “Are you literally 12?”

“It is _tradition_ ,” Richie says, smoothly shifting to another, sterner accent while gesturing more entreatingly at the floor.

Eddie hesitates only a beat longer before stepping forward, pulling closed the door of the closet behind him. He raises his drink when a hand impatiently tugs at his shirt, though it’s little more than ice and dregs. “Don’t make me spill!”

“Calm your tits, I’ve got refreshments if you do,” Richie says, the light of his phone illuminating a pair of bottles he retrieves from his side near a deactivated roomba. “Bourbon for me and – ” He shakes a bottle of Beefeater gin that is tinted alarmingly red. “This for you, which I picked up because the name is fucking hilarious.”

Eddie presses his lips together, glancing to Richie, then back to the bottle. “What did you do to it?”

“I filled it half up with grenadine and lemon, so it’s like a big ol’ gin daisy,” Richie says, grinning wide, surely at his own reference to teenaged Eddie’s preferred drink, heavy on the grenadine. “For my favorite gentleman in suspenders.”

“You sentimental fuck,” Eddie says, leaning over and grabbing it with a huff, twisting the cap and pouring some of the makeshift cocktail over the remaining ice in his glass. He leans into Richie’s side, gesturing at the phone with a pair of fingers. “Simpsons?”

Richie grunts a low confirmation, arm hooking across Eddie’s shoulder. “I was thinking a Treehouse of Horror playlist, since it’s October.”

Eddie nods probably one or two too many times, taking the earbud when it’s offered. “This is a step up from your old walkman.”

“Right?” Richie says, propping his knee up to hold the phone better and clicking play on Marge’s face in front of a red curtain. “Would’ve killed to drag the TV in with us back then.”

It’s both like and unlike every ‘grown up’ party they went to between the ages of ten and seventeen; hiding in the dark, joking together while absorbing one piece of media or another – comics and music, now television interrupted by brief checks of social media. It was immature as fuck even then, which makes it honestly infantile now, but if anyone looks for and finds them, he’ll do exactly what he always did: blame Richie. It’s been a highly effective defense since the fall of 1982.

Eventually, he even manages to crawl between Richie’s legs, slotting them together back to front with the excuse of a better view. He used to think about it to obsession as a teenager, especially as the height difference slowly widened, but he never had the guts to do it; now, he barely even thinks about it. It’s something they do all the time, often in the reverse, with Eddie on the couch or a chair and Richie on the floor, head pillowed on a knee.

Eddie is drawn out of Homer being force-fed donuts by a sliver of light on the other side of the closet door, followed by footsteps, two pair, and if another couple tries to fuck in here he’s going to be _so_ pissed. He and Richie have dibs, technically, though it would probably happen in the closet, if anything happened at all, but that counts.

“Trev!” A voice says, panicked in that tipsy, snickering way that’s mostly for show. “We can’t go in here.”

“What the fuck,” Richie whispers in Eddie’s ear, the phone dropping and screen darkening between them. “We had dibs.”

Eddie huffs quietly, tilting his head to tap against Richie’s temple.

“It’s not like we’re going to do anything,” Trev says, his voice drifting patronizingly from the door to the lefthand wall. “Just using the sink – that is, if you can without making another mess, Mister Clumsyfuck.”

“Damn it,” the other guy says, followed by a brief glow in the en suite while they turn on the light. “Shut up.”

“Speaking of _fucking_ ,” Trev says, voice lilting dangerously close to suggestive; he better _not_ be about to propose they use the bed. “I think you should go for it.”

Eddie frowns and tilts his head slightly, glancing through the narrow crack of the door, but it doesn’t show much; the room on the other side stays dark.

“You think?”

“Yeah,” Trev says, scoffing, then audibly flopping backward onto the bed with a soft, pillow-y thump. “I mean, what other chance will you have?”

“He might be at the wedding?” The door opens, light flickering for a second time and joined by a shuffle of fabric that better not be a removed piece of clothing. “He’s their friend. And I won’t have _you_ voguing next to me, pretty boy.”

“Caleb, man,” Trev says, plainly condescending, “Come _on_ , we both know you can’t wait that long to find out if the daddy energy is real. You wouldn’t shut up his chest hair for a week after that one episode of Riley.”

Caleb barks out a laugh, soft and a little breathy, clearly in agreement.

“Daddy energy?” Richie murmurs into the back of Eddie’s neck, grin palpable and growing wider.

“Yeah, but – _Trev_ , he talks about a boyfriend.” Caleb’s voice drops, plainly skeptical, as he fucking should be considering Richie is firmly off the market. “Kind of constantly. He’s almost a wife guy - a _boyfriend_ guy.”

“Did you see him with anyone tonight?”

Caleb goes quiet _way_ too long, then has the nerve to sound uncertain: “Ms Marsh’s other friend – Ed… Eddie?”

Trev actually scoffs, a creak of the bed following some presumed wide gesture. “Rachel said that _Beverly_ said that they’re just like that, since they were like little kids. It doesn’t mean shit.”

“I guess I didn’t see them hold hands, or… or anything.”

Eddie’s scowl deepens and he glances down to the hand on the carpet next to him, tempted to reach out. He’s actually not sure of when they last held hands – a premiere, probably, or somewhere else equally, awkwardly public. He’s just not a hand-holder; he used to with Myra and it had felt like a playact of intimacy, uncomfortable and perfunctory, but now… Richie hangs off of him like an orangutan at the grocery store, he wraps a hand around Richie’s thigh at dinner, and, presently, he’s _in_ Richie’s _lap_.

The only thing Caleb is going to get fucked by is his assumptions.

“And he used to talk about a girlfriend constantly, right? Ergo, he now has ‘ _boyfriend’_ ,” Trev says, his tone dropping to a mocking lilt, “Like, he’s obviously just a perpetually single sad sack who’ll be flattered by your mediocre pickup skills.”

Eddie feels his teeth grind slightly as he shifts his jaw, suddenly, _forcefully_ dislikes this guy in a way usually reserved for shit drivers and nepotic hires.

“Damn, he’s got me,” Richie mumbles, digging his elbows a little into Eddie’s sides.

Eddie punches softly at the thigh bracketing his own, feeling Richie’s answering grin at the top of his shoulder.

“And even if there is something there, you’re hotter than that guy anyway,” Trev continues, loftily, “Definitely younger. He’s got to know he can do better, especially since he got all thick for Riley.”

Eddie narrows his eyes, irritated and unsure if he should be more offended for himself being called _old_ or for Richie being implied so shallow. _Or_ proud that Richie’s being perceived as some kind of… the gin catches up with him and he covers his mouth before he can snort out loud; Richie Tozier is _not_ a sex symbol.

“And I’m over this,” Richie mutters, abruptly standing with a quiet grumble and a heavy hand steadying on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Wait, Rich –” Eddie hisses, realizing too late that maybe two middle-aged guys hanging out in a closet at a party isn’t going to come off as _completely_ unremarkable.

“ _Hi-diddly-ho_!” Richie greets, sliding open the door in the most insufferable manner possible.

Caleb yelps something pitchy and unintelligible, stumbling back into the wall with a thunk.

Trev keeps it together only slightly better, freezing on the bed like a startled deer while his eyes sweep up and down Richie. The way his expression falls when his eyes catch on Eddie is particularly satisfying, hands retreating from behind his head down around his middle with a marked crack of a pair of knuckles

“Yep,” Richie says, putting his hands on his hips and peering at Trev and Caleb with too-wide eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “ _Yep_. I’m sure you didn’t expect this!”

“Richie,” Eddie sighs, stepping out from behind him with an awkward rub at his brow.

“Anyhoot, I just wanted to let everyone know my boyfriend is totally real,” Richie says, gesturing at Eddie with two pointed fingers like an air traffic controller, then turning his hands palm up with an exaggerated shrug. “I know, it shocks me, too – I feel like Pygmalion half the time, really, but I just can’t be out blasting his name.”

“Uh,” Caleb intones, blankly, eyes sliding sideways to Eddie, then promptly dropping to the floor.

Richie takes the silence for confusion, or at least pretends to, “You know, like I carved a beautiful, perfect man in marble and the gods took mercy on me to bring him to life.”

Eddie blames the alcohol for the high spot of heat flashing across his cheeks. “Reel it in, Rich.”

Richie offers another exaggeratedly soppy look. “I did.”

“Then fucking catch and release,” Eddie mutters, biting back a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Richie grins openly back, then his eyes go wide and he raises one hand in the dramatic gesture of an epiphany. “Oh, and I have to clear something else up: _Riley_ may have daddy energy,” he says, shifting away to make room to gesture vaguely to the side with a sweep of both hands, then pulling both in to gesture at himself. “But Richie is all baby energy.”

Eddie drops his head slightly, staring for a beat at the tasteful reclaimed wood bed frame; he loves Richie so much that he can’t even joke about breaking up with him, not even in the privacy of his own mind, but damn if he isn’t close. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling.

“Don’t tell Eds; he still hasn’t seen my kink portfolio.”

“ _Rich_ ,” Eddie snaps, a tic at the corner of his jaw while a bolt of heat strikes across the tops of his ears. “Try to use one of your two goddamn brain cells.”

Caleb chokes slightly, both hands lifting to cover half of his face.

“I dunno, man,” Trev says bluntly, sparing a look for the mortified Caleb who still hasn’t said a word, then peeking between Eddie and Richie. “It’s becoming pretty clear you’re already on a leash here.”

Richie leans into Eddie, hand up near his mouth and voice barely a whisper in a way that is clearly for the all-important comedic effect. “Is that true?”

Eddie narrows his eyes, “Thinking about breaking out a choke chain.”

Richie cracks up immediately, leaning harder into Eddie while smiling wide and eyes creasing up. “Sorry, you know I’m like, a lot wasted,” he says, summarily turning and slumping completely onto Eddie with a rueful whine. “We should’ve just stayed in the closet.” A beat of silence passes, then he’s predictably giggling into Eddie’s shoulder, “Please tell me you’ll remember that joke for me.”

“Fuck no,” Eddie says flatly, unfortunately aware that neither of them are _really_ very drunk; he just cannot wait to hear Richie workshopping how to spin this scene for his next set. “Everyone better forget this.”

“Can do,” Caleb says, little more than a squeak.

“Right, but _first_ ,” Trev clears his throat, getting a little too comfortable on the bed and brow cocking significantly in the direction of the closet. “Why _were_ you two in there?”

Richie pivots off of Eddie with a grin, exaggeratedly lecherous while sliding an arm over his shoulder, then dramatically unlocks his phone to show off the paused video. “Check it out – Treehouse of Horror. We’re on IV.”

Trev has a haircut that involves actual effort, an outfit that means he’s probably a model for Bev, and the way his suggestive expression quickly becomes incredulous makes Eddie remember what it means to really be a Loser. The way Richie huffs out a chuckle, shifting sideways to gently check his hip, only compounds the feeling that he’s again a teenager failing to be cool with his usual accomplice.

“You were watching cartoons together?” Caleb says, voice oddly creaky and a weird, dazed look crossing his face.

“Proudly in the closet since 1986,” Richie says, as if bragging, then exaggeratedly absorbs Eddie’s elbow to the gut. He seems to take it as an invitation to cling closer, arm tightening around Eddie’s waist. “But I wouldn’t call the Simpsons a cartoon – it’s a masterpiece.”

Trev snorts indelicately, shoving off the bed with a reach for Caleb’s elbow while stepping for the door. “And we’re out of here. Love your show, hope you get that Emmy, sorry about objectifying you, et cetera.”

The door opens and quickly clicks shut with a brief echo of the dull roar of the party only a short pair of staircases away. It’s been a couple of hours since they were down there, certainly enough time that it’s weird none of their friends have, at least, texted. It could be that they just expected them to disappear, which is a little irritating.

Richie squeezes Eddie’s hip before he shifts away, bounding onto the bed in Trev’s place and reaching up with one hand to gesture at the open collar of his tastefully hideous floral button-up. “You know I once almost wore one of those cheap nylon dog collars on stage?”

“Excuse me?” Eddie says, sternly ignoring the image that flashes behind his eyes without his permission.

“Yeah, it was like a visual metaphor for me being a ‘total dog’ or something.”

“Or something,” Eddie repeats flatly, turning to face Richie and raising an eyebrow, pointedly gesturing up and down with a jut of his finger. “Is this in your top secret _kink portfolio_?”

“No,” Richie says, shrugging inward with a huff, then inhaling slowly, humor slowly fading from his face and replaced with something more nervous as his smile gets taut. “I _mean_ – I sort of… I saw myself in the mirror and freaked, so I took it off and pretended it never happened.”

Eddie stares for half a beat, then forcibly rolls his eyes, ignoring a brief thudding beneath his sternum; alright, so this is _not_ about drawing out the earlier joke. “You’re such a fucking prude about shit you’re actually into.”

Richie gives a half-sputtering laugh that’s his usual cover for anxiety. “Blame the clown!”

Eddie tips his head with a glance toward the door, firmly closed, and takes a deep breath while looking back to Richie. “So is this like… a thing you’re telling me you want to try?”

Richie freezes for a beat, eyes wide, then proceeds to actually drag his hands over his face and flop flat onto his back on the bed. “You’re killing me right now, Eddie Spaghetti, with two hundred people like literally underneath us; holy shit.”

“You brought it up,” Eddie says, rounding the edge of the bed and fairly sure Richie is being dramatic, not trying to stage an invite. “Answer the question, maybe?”

Richie takes a few shallow breaths, quiet for too long while staring up at the ceiling with his arms spread wide in a T pose across the comforter. “I… don’t know.”

Eddie reaches out slowly, ignoring a panicky little voice at the back of his mind insisting he could ruin something, and skims his knuckles across Richie’s exposed neck where a collar might buckle around. He’s never thought about it, but… He’s not _not_ open to the idea of his name at Richie’s throat.

Richie swallows underneath his fingertips, eyes dark and wide behind oversize lenses.

“Fuck, you’re right,” Eddie admits grudgingly, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to pull his hand back. He looks up and focuses on a fold in the curtains; the glow of the ongoing party down in the courtyard. “We _cannot_ have this conversation at Ben and Bev’s engagement party.”

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more of this? But I also have left it like this for a couple months now, so maybe gauging if any interest at this point.
> 
> I can also be found on twitter [ @ ezlebe](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en)


End file.
